Madilyn Kane

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December 18, 2015
by madilynkane001
4 Comments

Radical Revision: Wired Wonder

Ariel the Little Mermaid Figurine—mint condition, unopened—on unused desk in the top-left corner of room; ion light theory lamp, crookedly sitting on top of a pile of clean and dirty clothes; portrait drawing of me by ex-boyfriend, John, bookmarked in the current novel I’m reading, warped water-damaged postcard from childhood friend, Alanna, eight years ago; torn stuffed Hippo PillowPet in open box from first relationship ever—Belle—a dorky girl with glasses, long hair, and porcelain skin; Papa’s old ragtag heated blanket stuffed in corner of bed.

What do these things all have in common, despite the fact that they’re all in my room? Sentimentality. Value beyond their value. Memories. Nostalgia. Idealization of the past. Romanticism. Pseudo love. Pseudo feelings-that-make-me-feel-good-even-though-they’re-not-as-real-as-I-want-them-to-be.

Just throwing it out there, a disclaimer perhaps: I’m not a hoarder. Who am I trying to convince, you say? Well, just let me point it out for you like this: Everyone has a couple items that they’ve had ever since they were a baby that, to this day, they still cling on to with a death grip, despite how stale and worn it is at the hands of time. It’s normal. It’s human.

We all deliberately cling on to things that are dead and gone—things that don’t last. And maybe we do it, projecting our feelings onto these objects that aren’t alive because we want them to be alive, to be as meaningful to other people as they are to you. But objects can never possess feelings; humans do. Everyone wants a forever. But maybe that doesn’t exist in the form you think it does. Because nothing lasts forever. And that’s the scariest part about life.

Do you remember that point in your life when you clung onto something so stupid that you just wouldn’t give it up? When your parents have to tell you to throw that specific object out for the hundredth time, but you simply refuse. That moment, when you look her in the eye and tell her that there’s a couple more uses out of it, but she shakes her head in disagreement and tells you to get rid of it and just buy a new one. But you realize that you don’t want a new one—you don’t need a new one. Your old one is fine; it will do. But then you realize that not everything you cling on to is actually good for you; in fact, it could be toxic and even detrimental for your childhood development (in the way that separation anxiety and attachment issues finds its way into the crevices of your mind, your worst fears).

I have a heated blanket, but not just any heated blanket—my dad’s old ragtag heated blanket stuffed in the corner of my bed. Do I use it every night before I go to bed? Of course, I do. It smells of stale cigarettes and cheap Cambodian perfume. It’s soft like dream clouds, yet hard in some parts like a father’s love. It’s wiry, lumpy, and annoying, but warm nonetheless.

Before the blanket was given to me, Papa, as a late-twenty-something-year-old used it to keep himself enveloped in furnace warmth during the harsh Providence winter. In fact, it was so cold that December that his breath was visible. With great perseverance, he sacrificed his bodily autonomy in the heatless confines of his dilapidated shack to save up for a ring to propose to Ma. And eventually, he did. She said “Yes.”

After the heated blanket was heavily used by Papa, fast forward years later until I was about eight, when he first gave me the blanket. I remember I was sitting on my bed, waiting to be tucked in by Papa. He was late, which was unusual. He always came in on time at 9:00pm every single day—after a hard day’s work on top of roofs with his face darkened by sunburned skin—to tuck me in multiple times and kiss me goodnight. But it was already 9:15pm, and he still hadn’t shown up. After quite some time passed, I heard yelling outside my door—a man’s voice and a woman’s voice. If you want to leave, then go ahead! I’m not stopping you!

I bit my lip and feared the worst. So I hid under my covers, closed my eyes hard, and put my hands over my ears, trying to forget that this was even happening. This was my escapism in the form of quietude and nothingness. And then my father busted into the room suddenly with beads of sweat dripping down his forehead and his hair a frizzy black mop. Sorry, I’m late, my previous little girl, my only daughter. Now let me tuck you in.

Nodding my head slowly, I allowed him to wrap me in a soft burrito of love and comfort, and he allowed me to drift into dreams of fluffiness and childhood memories. He even untucked me to tuck me in again and again, my silly little pleasures—the memories that I keep surfaced in my head at all times when bad things arise, as if to protect myself from the evils of the world. It was a kindness for myself, something for me to keep, to hold on to no matter what.

But those little fingers couldn’t hold on to the tiny little grains of sand that fell from them this time. It’s impossible to catch every single grain. It’s because I was too selfish. It’s because I tried to hold on too hard, to cling on to eternity. This is karma. This is all my fault. Did I deserve this?

After he was done, he made a beeline toward the door and was about to disappear out of my life forever, until I called his name—until I truly lied to him for the first and last time in my life. I’m cold, Papa. And with that, he exited the room, carried a mountain of blankets including his heated blanket, married the plug and outlet together, and plopped it on top of me. One last time, he tucked me in for good measure. And that was that. He tried to leave again, and this time I let him.

He left me. He left me for dead. Like they always do. Am I not important to you? Am I not worthy enough of your love, for you to take me with you? Am I just nothing to you? Have I always been nothing to you? Did you even love me? Did any of you even love me? If you did, you wouldn’t have done this to me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry too.

Perhaps I have spent too much time clinging on to useless things in my life—things that should’ve been thrown out years ago, but I’m just too sentimental for that kind of stuff. I don’t think I have it in me to throw out memories—the things I grew up with, all my life. Papa’s heated blanket in this case—that old ragtag thrash-worthy blanket with years and years of love and hatred embedded into its stains, stubbled fluff, and frayed wires.

Perhaps I’m just too happy hoarding a million little trinkets in my room the way Ariel from the Little Mermaid does. She has twenty thing-a-ma-bobs, but somehow she still wants more. But unlike Ariel, I think I’m just content with the things that I already do have. I have a profound appreciation for them, since they’re special to me. They will always have a little place in my heart no matter what. That’s just the kind of person I am and have always been.

Some people don’t bat an eyelash when they throw out pictures of their ex’s or old journals from their elementary school or rag-tag childhood plushies like the trash they’re meant to be. But I can’t do that. I’m scared of letting go. I’m scared of what it means to let go. Because everything I’ve ever loved somehow disappears out of my life, and I have no power to control it. That is my worst fear in the entire world—when people leave me. That is why I keep trash laying around. Because it can never leave me.

But this time, I let it go. I let it go in order to grow as a person—to be better, to get better. Yeah, that’s why—because I needed to grow up and be an adult in the real world instead of a child attempting to control everything, the things that can never be controlled—people. And I think I’m finally ok with that. Because as cliché as it is to say this: If you love anything in life, you must let it go. That’s the key to happiness—the ability to feel the emotion, accept what you can’t control, and then let it go.

December 10, 2015
by madilynkane001
8 Comments

Blog Post #11 – Introductions

Looking throughout The Next American Essay, I decided to choose and analyze Jamaica Kincaid’s Girl, especially its purpose as long-winded prose—a list of commands with little conversation—in a single sentence, punctuated with semi-colons alone. This makes a great introductory passage to apply Ozick’s model of the essay in “She: Portrait of the Essay as a Warm Body.”

For instance, Ozick states that “Like a poem, a genuine essay is made out of language and character and mood and temperament and pluck and chance (151). For Girl, this essay does not have a finite introductory or disclosing piece to it, making it an interesting find to analyze. The first section of the essay is just a list of commands from a mother to a daughter back in the 1900s it seems: “Wash the white clothes on Monday and put them on the stone heap; wash the color clothes on Tuesday and put them on the clothesline to dry; don’t walk barehead in the hot sun; cook pumpkin fritters in very hot sweet oil…” (Kincaid, 43).

The first section of the semi-colon can tell you that the setting takes place in a rural farmland area, since there are no advanced technological feats to do this work; everything is done by hand. It also gives you the days of the week to show the themes of instilled years of tradition and routine; it also revealed that it is a very gendered perspective, in which women have to do all the housework, while men work actual jobs in the real world. It definitely does hit upon a mother’s tough love toward her daughter. With Ozick in mind, the essay is almost like a poem with characters and a mood of innocence and childhood yet sternness and learning.

Ozick also states that “The genuine essay, in contrast, never thinks of us; the genuine essay may be the most self-centered (the politer word would be subjective) arena for human thought ever devised” (155). The objects here is the white clothes and the stone heap, which tell a story in itself. It makes you wonder and speculate who are the characters, where does it take place, why are they talking about washing clothes, and so much more unanswered questions. In this way, it is ambiguous and keeps the reader interested and wanting to know more.

Even more, Ozick says  that “the storyteller gathers up whatever is supplied and makes out of these random, unlikely, and disparate offerings a tale both logical and surprising” (155). So just using these list of commands, creates a mood and an entire story. What’s most interesting about the essay is the fact that the mother constantly keeps using the word “slut,” fearing that her daughter will become it at some point in her life and that she would be the kind of person that the baker would not let touch his bread. It makes for an interesting dynamic for a relationship with a mother and daughter.

November 19, 2015
by madilynkane001
5 Comments

Blog #10 – Visual Language & Metaphor

Purpura’s “Autopsy Report” utilizes language strategically by offering vivid images that rely on the reader’s five senses, especially with the use of short phrases or sentences coupled with unique and perhaps awkward wordplay. For instance, even in the first sentence of the entire piece, the author states, “I shall begin with the chest of drowned men, bound with ropes and diesel-slick” (Purpura, 1). “Diesel-slick” is an interesting yet brilliant choice of words to describe the first scene, since it seems to emphasis a dark yet vivid visual imagery that definitely leaves a picture in your head. This kind of technique accentuates emphasis with short lists of words that give you quick images in your head that become layered upon each other, barely giving the reader time to think and reflect on them. Purpura lists a variety of different and powerful adjectives combined with simplistic nouns to almost mimic poetry, which makes it as effective for visual representations.

This piece even utilizes repetition such as “I shall” as well as patterns of short paragraphs that are spaced out with several pauses for extra emphasis. For example, in the next couple of sentences, she states, “I shall touch, while no one is looking, the perfect cornrows, the jacket’s wet color” (Purpura, 1).

Another example of lists and the use of italics for an added effect is: the autopsy report: “The last person to see him alive was his girlfriend. History: bipolar. OD: heroin” (2). In this case, the reader can imagine the visuals and even determine a bit of the plot with just these list-like words by using common sense—by understanding cause and effect. We use these list-like words that a strung together to fill in gaps to connect a story together and create our own imaginative visuals.

As for Biss’s “Dust Off,” she, too, also uses this similar style of short strung list-like words and pauses to convey a story, although she had the advantage of footage and sound at her side unlike Purpura. One instance of this technique is when she describes the first story of death: “The problem was that the propellant sometimes lingered in the lungs, displaced oxygen and killed you” (Biss, 1:06). Here, she recounts the story of how Theo took in propellant to get high, which ultimately caused his death—haunting and eerie. To make this more meaningful, she inhales and exhales and pauses for a while to mimic Theo’s death to give it a realistic added effect and much more powerful (Biss, 1:16).

As for the visuals, it was harsh snow falling everywhere, which transitioned into an empty leaveless tree, alone and isolated, in the midst of a snowstorm, which is a powerful image that becomes ingrained into your memory. The tree symbolizes Theo’s death and isolation when he died alone. In addition, the soundlessness gives a foreboding suspenseful tone.

In the end, both of the works depict death as a result of drugs in a visual and powerful way. The use of short phrases and sentences with a good amount of space in between words are both their strategy to evoke imagery and imagination. More specifically, they focused on simple yet descriptive adjectives and nouns in list-like forms, which gives it a much more fast-paced solemn, sad tone.

November 10, 2015
by madilynkane001
3 Comments

Blog Post #9 – On the Form of the Video Essay

One quote that easily summarizes Freeman’s essay “On the Form of the Video Essay” is that “As a form the video essay tests the mettle of the literary essay—personal, lyrical, contemplative, improvisational, performative, [and] critical.” And the fact that there isn’t really a form that you can follow step by step to achieve a memorable nonfiction video essay.

Using Freeman’s video essay criteria as a template, one can investigate Bresland’s “Mangoes” and understand his intentions and utilization of film techniques. For instance, one of the reasons that makes this film so brilliant is Bresland’s use of juxtaposition, poeticness, and his use of sound and image integrated together in a cohesive unity.

In the beginning, the father first narrates the story, while he shows images of his wife wearing the Baby Bjorn and ambling around with a smile pasted on her face. He chooses to film her in nature, while she carries her beautiful baby boy on her chest with her arms free, while he tells the audience with a voice-over how he’s never work it before or given it a chance (0:29). He then chooses to transition the scene into with an interview with his landlord—a masculine, tattooed man who rides motorcycles and how he thinks it’s “gay” (1:07). This is excellent juxtaposition makes the audience analyze and critically think about both perspectives of how useful yet silly the Bjorn is; in addition, it also allows them to come to their own conclusions about the baby device. In this way, this self-reflexivity from the narrator, whether it is unaware or not, permits the audience to engage in a conversational piece, in which the narrator speaks directly to the audience—a recommendation that Freeman exerts.

Another example of Bresland’s use of mismatching sound and moving images is when he states that “If baby loves, I love it” and pans the screen to a floating shovel in the ocean. This image makes it seem as if a child accidentally left it on the beach and it washed away or that he or she was playing with it, and it happened to drift away (3:09). This image is common and really relatable; it has a childlike aesthetic to it that appears to give the audience remnants of feelings of nostalgia. Somehow the shovel seems isolated and drifting, similarly to how parenting is just going with the flow of things that always ebbs, weaves, and changes constantly, which make it difficult to adapt to. You can find appreciation for this image somehow.

And finally, one of the most memorable and crucial images—which is mimicked in the title “Mangoes—is the end, where the father is cutting mangoes for his son and feeding it to him, despite the fact that his wife told him not to since she’s allergic to mangoes. And after searching on Google within nine seconds, he discovered that allergies are hereditary, but somehow doesn’t feel that bad about almost potentially killing his child (6:12). He states in narration format, “I can tell you more about the Harley than I can about parenting and I’ve never driven a Harley,” which only means that there isn’t really a parenting manual to tell him what’s right or wrong or how to raise a baby properly (6:45).

The father asks the question as to why he did this and came to a few conclusions, but only one conclusion stood out—one that spoke the truth, that spoke volumes about his character and his actions; he didn’t want his son to become a bubble boy, so he inoculated him (7:11). He only wants to protect his son and be the best father her could be, but at the expense of potentially being branded as an “idiot father.” To tie this all in, Freeman implies that the answers to the questions you ask are supposed to be incomprehensible and unanswerable, and Bresland does just that. There isn’t just one simple answer to everything, since people’s lives and psychology are too complex to take into account.

October 29, 2015
by madilynkane001
3 Comments

Blog Post #8 – Music and Sound Design

I have three potential pieces of original music that my best friend created that I might use for my audio essay. This includes Grayleaf, Memories, and Apple Farm, which are all acoustic songs—some of them with soft male background vocals from my friend. Grayleaf is purely instrumental, an acoustic guitar specifically. I’ll use this for the beginning when I’m at the Electronic Shop trying to repair my heated blanket. Memories is a bit sadder, so I’ll use that part when my dad leaves the room and slams the door. And finally, I’ll use Apple Farm, since it’s a happier tune, for the memory of my dad and I playing around, while he attempts to tuck me in.

After listening to the Interview with Jeff Porter, I came to the conclusion that since my story both utilizes happy and sad memories, I will need to take advantage of instrumentals that can do both as well. The interview also suggests to emphasize a voice to match the music, which I will do by making my voice more solemn and distant.

Furthermore, the narrator in the midst of a conversation piece also suggests that people choose atmospheric music to match their strong audio essays and allow the sound to take control. Even more, he discusses how layering voices could create an added effect as if people were in a room together. One of the main take-aways that the interview evokes is to allow the idiosyncrasy to take hold of your work. To elaborate, the narrator realizes the importance of a home-ground voice rather than a radio voice that comes outside of media. He suggests that people use their one of a kind voice rather than trading it away for the unoriginal voice of authority, which could prove to be disadvantageous. The most important thing to realize is that audio essays are trial and error, especially in the digital error. Giving yourself multiple alternative options is the way to go; the more choices you have, the better outcome your essay produces.

I’ll even consider advice from Using Music: The Kitchen Sisters, since they stated that it is quite difficult to find music that fits into the voice of an audio essay. One crucial quote that they suggested is that “Music, it can’t be too thick or busy or textured. It can’t compete or it swallows up and drowns out a voice.” In order to have a great essay, the music cannot interfere with the audio essay in a negative way. The music should be simplistic and light, not too heavy or convoluted with other voices. You have to use these effects cleverly to convey a certain effect or evoke a sense of emotion.

I think I will use music to make my audio essay more haunting, eerie, and powerful to evoke a linger sense of the nostalgia of the past. My story is a pretty playful, yet sad overall memory of the past. It discusses the pain of growing up with this memory and how difficult it is to deal with emotions, especially the loss of a parent metaphorically. I’m also worried that the songs might not fit and that I have to switch them around and use them for different purposes rather than my intended notions of where I saw each song fit, which won’t be that problematic. I hope not anyway. I’ll just rely on trial and error when the time comes.

October 22, 2015
by madilynkane001
2 Comments

Blog Post #7 – Reading on the Air

Using Jonathan Kern’s chapter “Reading on the Air” as a platform for audio technique, we as the listener can come to a few conclusions about Wheeler’s “Ugly Pew.” First, we can understand that his audio essay is effective, since he utilizes emphasis in certain words and phrases when he pauses or stutters.

For instance, Wheeler says, “Some areas of the pew were worn away that,” accentuating the deep wispy yet breathy sound of the word “that” (Wheeler, 0:55). He slightly pauses there for an added effect to evoke a sense of emotional sadness that seems almost haunting in a way. In another example, he stutters to reveal human mistakes and emotional chaos and confusion: “I, I wanted somebody to see me rush out” (5:40). It seems natural and urgent.

Even more, Kern states that effective audio essays require a stage presence or at least the ability to perform and make it feel as though they are directly talking to the audience (Kern, 133). He even says to imagine that you are talking to someone you know in order for you to sound natural. Wheeler is embodying this advice with his tone and voice by creating an emotional effect of pain and solemnness. In terms of pacing, Wheeler does an excellent job at this when he reads some phrases slowly and others quickly, depending on what effects he wants to use at that moment to instill a certain kind of emotion (Wheeler, 139).

Another key move that Wheeler makes is his use of repetition, which instills a rhythmic beat that sounds aesthetically pleasing. One example is when he lists off a bunch of descriptions of different hands including the “chubby grabby hands” of a baby. He uses these adjective noun lists to provide juxtapositions between different hands inside the church to reveal certain people who attend the church (1:45).

Furthermore, Wheeler also does an excellent job of using music. In one example, Wheeler inserts the use of religious choir music for an added eerie and holy effect, almost to make the listener feel as if they are in church at that moment (3:11). It makes the entire narrative seem holy and divine, yet hopeful with prayer.

Wheeler also does a great job by using visual images, so the audience can rely on the five senses and use their own imagination to match the audio. This is depicted in “chin slightly raised toward the Heavens” (4:33). Here, he lists off short fast descriptions of how body parts move and interact with each other in the church, which creates a perfect and meaningful image in the audience’s mind.

One of the most memorable parts about this audio essay is when the narrator’s sister almost dies by overdosing on Vicodin pills, since she no longer wanted to live anymore. This act of suicide was deeply disturbing and haunting in a perverse and strange way. This is portrayed in: “We almost lost her” (6:33). In this instance, the narrator sounds almost like he’s hurting really badly—that this pain was unexplainable and frightening to experience. His voice is whisper-like and breathy, almost on the verge of tears. He’s really upset that he almost lost his sister. This realization is intense and hard to swallow. Even when his mother recounted the entire ordeal, she was so scared and confused as well: “My daughter wanted to die” (9:43). She almost lost her daughter that night, which is unstomachable.

Ultimately, Wheeler’s use of solemn and breathy voice and tone, repetition of phrases for emphasis, visual imagery, and his emphasis on certain words makes his audio essay such a powerful and memorable piece.

October 8, 2015
by madilynkane001
2 Comments

Blog Post #5 – Essay on the Radio Essay

Essentially, Porter’s “Essay on the Radio Essay” depicts the cultural history and evolution of the radio essay specifically pertaining to American patriotism and struggle, which was derived as a result for the need for entertainment during the Great Depression as well as World War II (Porter, 187). In order for a radio essay to be successful, Porter explains that the way the commentator reads his works is crucial, for voice and tone is everything. It is able to convey a multitude of meanings including power, professionalism, a sense of education, strong emotions such as anger or sadness, or even quick-witted humor. Even accents are telling in and of themselves because they are able to provide a historical context for the overall essay (Porter, 190). Porter goes on to say that the commentary voice is just as important as the text itself, and we must not forget that, since people have a tendency to focus on written words rather than the spoken ones: “the idea of voice thus gets lost in notions of textuality, and when this happens we forget that the voice is a medium in its own right” (Porter, 193).

Vowell’s “NRA vs. NEA,” an essay narrative, discusses the stubborn feud and misunderstanding between a father and his daughter and the struggle to understand one another, despite their apparent differences. Throughout the entire essay, Vowell strategically uses an array of techniques that we have previous discussed in class including the combination of long winded sentences mixed with short choppy ones to evoke a sense of sass and attitude and to accentuate her critical, narrow-minded, and stubborn personality and perspective—similarities that she doesn’t realize that she shares with her dad. For instance, she uses playful words and hyperboles such as “civil war battleground it was” to describe her chaotic relationship with her dad (Vowell, 5:07). This makes her an excellent storyteller, one that makes the audience desire more, since it offers interesting perspectives to the essay as a whole.

She also utilizes quick-witted humor, especially when she refers to the fact that she’s “not the one who plastered the family truck with national rightful association stickers…hunter orange wasn’t my color” (Vowell, 5:10). We start to understand her nature and the kind of person she is with these snippets of attitude that represent her character. Another example is when she states that she “had to make revolvers out of the way to make room for [her] bowl of Rice Crispies on the kitchen table (5:46). In short, she uses this anecdote, a personal touch from the three-framed pole, to allow the audience to witness a glimpse into her life in order to describe how different she and her father were. Guns were littered everywhere in her life; there was no escape for her at all.

In addition, the incorporation of catchy and upbeat music in the background really helped the essay transition well. For instance, when the tone of the essay changed, so did the music to help dramatize the events in Vowell’s life; when she states that she wants to become a better daughter, the music completely changes into something more hopeful and upbeat instead of critical. Another instance of this is when she starts to sing one of the American anthems, “Oh, beautiful.” This demonstrates how she thinks guns and American coincide together really well (Vowell, 11:13). My favorite edition is when Vowell incorporates the use of other people’s voices in her essay; this happens in a conversation with another person: “You cannot shoot fireworks but this is considered a firearm” (Vowell, 10:30). Hearing another person’s voice, a deviation, allows us to take a break from her voice.

Moreover, she conveys her message through the essay by relying on her voice and tone. In one instance, Vowell depicts how much she detested guns by using a disgusted and stubborn tone, specifically when her father taught her how to shoot a gun at six-years-old: “I was so scared I had to close my eyes. It felt like it went off by itself like I had no say in the matter” (Vowell, 7:16). She is clearly scared of these satanic guns. However, in the end, she repairs her relationship with her father by being more open-minded by allowing herself to be absorbed in his interests; this unfolds when she shot the canon with him. She realizes that “my dad are the same people” (12:13). Ultimately, Vowell cleverly uses these techniques to emphasize the efficiency of the radio essay.

October 6, 2015
by madilynkane001
213 Comments

Texual Essay – Wired Wonder

Why am I standing under an umbrella, freezing my butt off in the cold outside an electronic shop at 6:00 o’clock in the morning–the only time it opens during this holiday week–the day right before Christmas Eve with a heated blanket, the color of blood, in one hand and a wallet in the other?

The answer is simple: one frayed wire, a dangerous threat to others and the blanket itself–plus my inability to cope with my past trauma–repressed into a tiny crevice in my brain–plus my severe attachment issues plus my disgusting obsession with sentimentality as a concept.

This is the equation for lack of love combined with the persistence to constantly preserve nostalgia in an object and sadistically relive it over and over, again and again. Nevermind, it’s a little bit more complex than that. There is no simple answer.

Most people wouldn’t bother to repair a heated blanket; they would just throw it out and get a new one. But I’m not like most people. I cling onto things like a parasite, even if I render it unusable. Without its furnace warmth, the heated blanket is just a mere blanket—a rag-tag piece of disposable sheet, layered with excess fluff, so I have no choice but to repair it.

With a crooked smile, I stood before a mustached man at the counter shivering with the blanket laid out across both my arms as if it were a dead infant. “Here,” I said. “Give me two hours,” and I nodded my head, waiting in the corner of his over-cramped shack in between a mop and a broken television, fidgeting with my boyfriend’s bulky G-shock that was slapped on to my wrist–an early Christmas present that I helped myself to.

The only thought that ran through my mind was the fact that: While all the other people are ripping through layers of wrapping paper and self-indulging in excess amounts of fruitcake and roast beef, I will be cuddling with my heated blanket on Christmas—my substitute for a significant other (besides John)—in a frenzy of feels and pseudo intimacy.

~

Outside my door, I heard faint shouting–the teetering of voices that stuck onto the vacant hallways. A woman’s voice. And a man’s voice. The shouting grew louder and louder and then shriveled into silence. Then my door violently swung open, and as a result, I buried myself in a veil of safety, a blanket fort. But it was just papa, so I had nothing to fear.

In the lamplight, I saw him there, my papa, in my ugly pink room, kneeling on the carpet, pecking my forehead with his chapped lips. He broke his pose to fetch a few blankets from the closet and dispersed it evenly on top of my tiny eight-year-old body.

With gnarled and knotted fingers, he tucked me in a cocoon of softness and comfort, digging into the layered blankets creating a masterpiece around me—a creased silhouette, a barrier to protect me amidst the darkness.

The entire time, I giggled in pure bliss, squirming around frantically, while he tried to tuck me in–a game only a father and his daughter could play. I wanted to be tucked in over and over again until I fell asleep, but even I knew that would be asking for too much.

I remember that I lied to him for the first and last time in my life. I mean I felt absolutely terrible about the entire ordeal, but I had to do what I had to do to keep the love lingering in my heart and mind–the components that made up an eight-year-old child who desperately yearned for constant affection, of which she was not receiving due to her parent’s busy work schedule.

It was three simple words: “I’m cold still.” He was about to leave and head for the door, but I pulled him back with these unconscious words that just rolled off my tongue. And it worked, for that moment.

With a fuzzy crimson blob in his hand and a mess of white wires, he plopped it on top me and united the plug and outlet together. One click was all it took for this contraption on top of me to envelope me in furnace warmth and unconditional love.

My papa toppled onto me and pressed his face against the nape of my neck and nuzzled me tenderly, while ruffling my hair into a mop. I could feel his cold tears smother my neck, and in that moment, I wanted to cry too. He finally removed himself from the twin and once again made a beeline toward the door, but this time he didn’t look back not even once. Goodnight. Goodbye.

Immediately without thinking, I squirmed out of my cocoon and pulled the freshly tucked-in flaps out from under me.

“Papa, come back and tuck me in,” I called out into the distance, but there was no reply. The only response that I received was the reverberation of a slammed door that shattered not only the remnants of my over-saturated heart but my world–enough to send an electric shock, a wake-up call,  into the trepidating crannies of my soul. And after that, I never saw my dad again. The day before Christmas Eve, my mama told me that she filed for divorce.

~

After two hours subsided, I revisited the counter with a wallet in my hand. “How much will that be?” I asked. “Sixty bucks.” And with that, the mustached man returned my heated blanket, almost as good as new with the exception of a giant soldered glop on the wire, wrapped in a layer of duct tape.

I pulled out three twenty dollar bills and threw him some extra change for his services. He points to the crumpled picture sticking out of my wallet. It’s my papa, I begin to explain, and he nods.

With his eyes glued to the floor, he informed me that his father recently passed away. So I dug in my purse, marrying my G-shock and the open leather flaps of my Coach bag, found two incenses, and handed it to him. I told him to burn one for his dad and one for mine, not that mine passed away or anything. I told him that he didn’t have to be Buddhist to light the incenses, since I wasn’t Buddhist either.

In a way, Papa did die…when he left my life, when he left my mom to raise three boys and a girl all by herself in both the Cambodian and American lifestyle.

They experienced the Cambodian Genocide together, the death of more than two million civilians–the death of family and friends, loved ones of any sort. They suffered loss together. They flew on a plane together, fueled by the United Nations’ compassion to save our people. They ate together. They slept together. They had four beautiful children together. They raised those children together. And now they divorced from each other, a final consummation that they were willing to do together one last time.

~

Thick fluffy sheets the color of blood. On my floor. Cut into little tiny pieces—remnants of the past. A combination of frayed wires, sausage length, and cloth triangles—in other terms, elaborate abstract shapes. Scissors in my hand. A crumpled picture of my papa in the other. Tears in my eyes.

It’s my twentieth the-day-before-Christmas Eve, the anniversary of my father’s pseudo death, and ate dinner alone (no one ever should have to do that), since my mom went on vacation and my brothers were all out of state at the time. I’m not the kind of person to intrude on anyone’s affair anyways.

At that time, everything spiraled out of control. My boyfriend recently broke up with me, so I buried myself under a layer of blankets that weren’t heated–with scissors in my hand and a mess in my lap with a pint of knocked-over Ben & Jerry’s cookie dough ice cream and a broken G-shock near my bedside. Yes, I did it; I broke the unbreakable; I destroyed my G-shock–a watch that could sustain the bunt of monstrous car tires over and over again and still live to see another day but it failed to survive the hands of a woman with a broken heart.

Three incense were lit, filling the air with a dusty but nostalgic aroma–one for that mustached man’s dad, one for mine, and one for John. Goodnight. Goodbye.

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